By Patrick Walsh
I’ve always been curious, and it’s always gotten me into trouble. When I was seven, I ate a bumblebee, and the next week, I had a whole hive in my stomach. When I was 13, I poked a few holes in a cow to see how long it would take to empty. When I was 18, I held the Thorpe kid over her parents’ fire pit to study how humans would take to the conditions in Hell. At seven, they sent me to the hospital. At 13, they sent me to a special school. At 18, they sent me here, Snorpington’s Home for Those of Less Than Average Sanity & Clothings Warehouse.
Norbert Snorpington built the facility in the 1980s, taking advantage of his position on the City Council to turn the push for a sanatorium that had more than an old car battery, some rope, and a handful of black licorice into a new location for his sartorial supply company. The downside is the store can’t operate between 4 and 6 p.m. (lobectomy hour). The upside is my mother buys me a new pair of woolen socks whenever she visits.
My digs at Snorps are honestly better than back home. My whole room is a bed, and the wall tastes like sponge cake. The next resident will be in for a surprise when they discover a bunch of lightly used coats in the second-to-top, third-from-right square instead of dessert.
They give me as many books as I want here. They know I wouldn’t hurt them. They won’t let me have another cat though.
I started The Atlas of Human Anatomy by Frank H. Netter in the morning. I finished after lunch. It said that the human finger is easier to bite through than a carrot. That can’t be true! Carrots are orange.
I looked at my own hand and wondered. I lifted my left ring finger to my mouth and clamped down until I heard a wet crunch. Hmmm. Mr. Frank H. Netter was right. This does taste better than a carrot. I spit it out, though (I had a large lunch). I grabbed a chunk of wall cake and held it over the stub to catch the blood.
Then, I broke the zipper off of my coat and peeled off the top layer of wallpaper. I dipped the jagged edge of the zipper into the red puddle at my feet and wrote, Dear Mr. Frank H. Netter. He needed to know that his speculation about fingers had been confirmed by a real researcher.
I brought my letter to Chef Sal at supper, so he would mail it, but he just ran away shouting about a hand. Even the nice ones are so darn selfish, I thought as I stared out his open window. Couldn’t it wait until after he took my letter? The scientific community cannot continue to function without my input. He’s putting everything—the internet, antibiotics, the Transformers—in jeopardy. I ran back to my room and penned another letter before the orderlies came, or the ink puddle dried.
I got lucky. Every day, the mail cart sat next to my bed in the infirmary. I slipped my missive in while the mail lady gave the attending physician oral sex. Once they pronounced me recovered, I stayed up for a week straight, shivering in my bedroom of nervous anticipation. On day eight, they resorted to horse tranquilizer, and I went down like a sack of potatoes.
The next night at supper time, my plan came to fruition. I hurdled the buffet at the commissary and sprinted past a shocked Chef Sal. The window was open again. I jumped.
I hit the cold night air with a gaping smile on my face. I would have a brilliant letter to write to Wilbur and Orville Redenbacher about their principles of flight. I’d be able to write it on real quality card stock this time, too.
For the first time, I looked down and was completely reassured. If my savior waited there already, I’d have known it was a ruse. The Decepticons, however evil, are very punctual. But Optimus always rushes in at the last moment to save the day.
I wondered how long it would take for all of the Energon to drain from his robotic carcass. Longer when in truck form or humanoid? As long as the cow in either? That cow was very juicy. The ground came closer, and I became worried. When I woke up surrounded by bright lights and beeping screens, my heart, located behind my sternum and between the second and fifth ribs, filled with chagrin.
My actions were crazy. The deeds of a madman. Optimus Prime is a machine with no known address. The message would take weeks, if not months, to get to him through Hasbro. Next time, I’ll send an email.
Patrick Walsh hails from majestic Yardley, Pennsylvania, also the hometown of Hollywood funnyman Richard Kind. You can see Richard in projects such as Inside Out, Curb Your Enthusiasm, and A Bug’s Life. With his wife Dana Stanley, Richard has three children, a son Max, and two daughters, Samantha and Skylar. Richard is also a bonafide cat lover. Patrick, on the other hand, prefers dogs. He is a junior at Penn State majoring in English and History. He enjoys playing tennis, reading, watching TV, and telling people he’s from the same place as a successful but not quite famous comedic character actor.